


that was your weakness

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Coming of Age, F/F, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 16:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1717658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my drabbles on Margot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by majesdane via tumblr.

He swings blindly, not caring whether he makes contact with the leather armor she’s been building up as long as she’s been alive. He swings and swings and never tires (but sometimes grows bored) and whines about “how unthrilling you’ve become, Margot” before seeking smaller fish to fry. 

He knows and she knows and they know when his strikes hit home because she gasps and the sound of breath returning is a horriffic, sucking, moan. “Really” he purrs, circling his prey. “How silly of me not to see she’s precisely your type.”

Girl after girl, each pierced, flayed, and shredded. Love becomes a weakness Margot can no longer afford to inflict.


	2. Chapter 2

Margot’s vocabulary is all wrong. 

She starts young at learning the stirrup, the bit, the clavicle, the lip.

By the time she squeezes her hips sending Lucie into a cantor, she knows. She knows, too, that is is better to stay in the barn, in the hay and feed and shit, than to try to find content and context for how she feels when she looks at other girls.

She thinks that she might not be a girl herself. That Mason came out wrong, so surely so did she. He came out bent and cruel, blood pumping with soot instead of fire or ice or want. He breaks and stomps and ruins, and rather than chance it, Margot believes she should look but never, ever touch. 

(But she touches herself. Touches and wonders how it is that her body feels so alive, so clean, so full of lightning. She touches herself and imagines that her fingers are not hers, but Mary from class, or Dara from the stables, or Jo March — stained with ink —, or another creature she cannot name, flashing across a tesseract. Her body arches against sheets like a horse, muscles coiling and exploding, springing over a hurdle.)

The first time Margot hears the word for what she is, Mary from class is bent over Margot’s skinned knee, gently picking grains of asphalt from the seeping wound. “I’ll walk with you to the nurse,” Mary says, and smiles, and Margot knows she shouldn’t knows she’ll regret it knows she wants it and surges forward to kiss Mary on the mouth. The kiss is over as quickly as it began, and Mary sits back, eyes wide and doesn’t walk Margot to the nurse at all. Mason finds out — he always does, he always will — and says the word over dinner. “Lesbian.” Mason gets a slap. Margot gets worse. The taste of leather and blood in her mouth burns like screams burn her throat.

(She sneaks books at the library, books that she reads tucked into other books and never checks out. In between words, in between letters, Margot understands. The strange beauty of it, of two women. Of kisses growing feverish, and hands exploring. They are fairy tales, Margot knows, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling alone.)

At university, Margot loses her virginity to a woman in the dorm showers. It isn’t good, but they make one another smile and after, Elizabeth brushes Margot’s hair until it falls like silk down her back. Elizabeth pats her down, touching every part and soothing it. The second time is better, and despite herself, Margot starts to hope.

Hope that burns on through everything. A flame that Mason cannot extinguish, though he wants to. More than anything.

(Killing him is almost as good as a body, wet with sweat, tangled with hers. Killing him may even be better.)


End file.
